


torture

by wincestgoddess



Series: ABC's of... [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Heavy Angst, Past Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Psychological Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestgoddess/pseuds/wincestgoddess
Summary: Sam's time in the cage
Series: ABC's of... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956697
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	torture

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment of my "ABC's of..." series, it takes place after S5 and focuses on what Sam went through at the hands of Lucifer in the cage. 
> 
> I wanna thank Jld71 for being my first ever beta on this work and helping me with the final product as well as decide the major tags!

**Asphyxiation**

Lucifer was hands-on.

Whether it be to mockingly caress, burn or break. He preferred his hands over any other object Hell could conjure up. 

Nothing could come close to the level of intimacy as he wrapped a strong hand around his little swan’s neck, his thumb rubbing over the pulse point, feeling its heartbeat flutter desperately. 

The thrashing that would follow as his grip tightened, effectively cutting off all circulation was exhilarating.

That natural survival instinct that would kick in, the creature’s eyes widening, its face a lovely purple shade; it was Lucifer’s personal nirvana.

Lucifer would make note of the contrast of such rough, strong hands coming up to try and dislodge his own. His delicate swan with hazel eyes and silky hair fighting for one last breath should have unblemished, smooth skin. His very own playground. 

Sam Winchester looked so pretty when he choked. 

**Branding**

When he was alive and on earth, Sam’s skin had been painted with marks that ran deeper than ink.

From the soles of his feet, up to his curved spine and elegant neck. 

He used to wear Dean’s marks proudly. 

The shadow of fingertips on his hips where they’d dug in too deep, the bite marks scattered down his thighs and most importantly the galaxy of fiery kisses his brother left behind with each touch of his lips. Dusted angel kisses.

Down here his skin had been tampered with. 

The devil had reached deep into his soul, had flushed out everything he had left of Dean, _cleansed_ Sam and he’d begun carving. 

Marked him for his own. 

Down here there were no gentle yet somehow rough fingers digging into his skin but nails slashing across it. The bite marks left him sore and feeling sick.

The kisses weren’t angelic. The tongue that plowed his mouth and claimed the dip of his collarbone scorched Sam. 

His marks were shameful here.

**Cutting**

Just because Lucifer tended to play with his hands didn’t mean he couldn’t find joy in taking Sam apart with other tools.

Scalpels were for the delicate parts, like under the eyes or the forehead. Smooth skin now complemented with red, bright lines. All of them precise, all of them done with the utmost care.

The machete was for rougher, meatier parts. Lucifer still called it cutting but this was slicing. He would wield the weapon elegantly and in one swift move he’d have sliced part of Sam’s thigh. The skin of his leg. One arm. 

Like the petals of a wilting rose each layer of skin was plucked out with skillful hands that loved nothing more than to feel the slimy muscle underneath, painting his fingertips shiny with blood and tug on the ligaments, string after string followed creating a cacophony of sounds better than any grunt Sam might’ve made.

With the bone saw, Lucifer let himself go. His eyes lit up red. They glowed as he cut deeper and deeper into the small of his back. And when he tapped the spine, oh what a delicious scream would fall from his tender rose’s mouth. 

Sam hated the bone saw.

But his true hatred was reserved for the pocket knife. It didn’t cut the deepest, it certainly wasn’t the most painful. It made mostly shallow cuts, which was a reprieve from the slicing and dicing. 

It reminded him of calloused hands that had taken care of him his whole life. 

That pain was worse. 

**Dean**

“If I didn’t know you, I would wanna hunt you.”

“It means you’re a monster.”

“Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak, I am _done_ trying to save you.”

Acidic memories fizzed out his brain, wormed their way in and twisted his insides until Sam’s eyes were rolling back. 

Not wanting to look weak had worked for perhaps the first few years. Time here was different and as it passed, Lucifer got creative. Physical pain only entertained him for so long. 

“You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back.”

The door was slammed shut. 

Reaching out was futile, Dean walked away. He always walked away. Sam was helpless, his dry lips cracked and he yelled, he screamed, he begged. 

Please, please don’t leave.

Fists pounding against a sturdy chest in desperation, Sam’s fingers itched to pull him closer, dragging him down into a melting kiss that filled up every bit of him, leaving him wanting more of this comfort. More of his warmth. More of this love. 

Lips left his own.

There was no body pressed to his.

Only arid air stroking his bare chest, leaving a shivering bundle of nerves in its wake.

Somewhere distant in Sam’s mind, a gleeful laugh echoed the walls of memories where he kept being tossed endlessly. 

“I’m here, Sammy. I’m not gonna leave you.”

Sam cried.

**Entrails**

Bowing to his unwilling dancing partner, Lucifer winked and clasped Sam’s hand in his, the other resting low on his hip as he turned them around and swayed them side to side.

“You’re the devil in disguise, oh yes you are,” he crooned softly into Sam’s ear, letting his tongue flick the lobe once, twice before Sam quietly hissed in discomfort. 

“Gotta love the classics, my little swan.” Humming, the fallen angel dipped the man’s body low wishing he could offer a single red rose to his beautiful victim to commemorate the moment. 

Instead, he pulled him back up and cheerfully said. “Time for the twirl. Big finale.”

It was only a fraction of a second in which Sam’s eyes had the chance to widen. He felt the pressure and tugging much sooner. 

A hand deftly reached into the large abdominal cut, Lucifer’s very own meat pocket and gripped the end of Sam’s intestines, pulling and pulling until they stretched. Grasping the end of the entrails, he twirled Sam.

And off he went. 

As he twirled him back toward him, Lucifer reached up with a dreamy smile, wiped the warm tears away and clawed down Sam’s cheeks instead, blood mixing with salt. 

He wrapped Sam’s very own innards around both of their necks, pressed their foreheads together and pecked his temple.

“Thanks for the dance.”

**Fire**

Crystalline tears formed in her blue eyes the night she burned. 

Sam hadn’t noticed back then. Had been too focused on the slashing done to her belly, the drops of blood falling on his forehead and the all-too-consuming fire swallowing her up. 

But she’d cried. 

That’s all he could see now, destined to relive one of his worst memories for the devil’s amusement. 

If he happened to tweak the image and Jessica’s face transformed into Mary’s for one second, that was just a plus. 

Mary hadn’t had time to form tears. 

As scrambled as his brain had to be by now, Sam still found a way to memorize every and each detail. 

The charred flesh, the texture, the skin peeling off her melting face and falling into Sam’s wide, open eyes; yet never completely obscuring his vision. He couldn’t _stop_ watching. He certainly tried. 

Some masochist part of Sam wished Jess had screamed. That her cries of agony would lull him to unconsciousness any time he reached his limit. Instead it was the sizzling that did it. 

And when he woke, he was trapped in icy blue all over again. 

**Gunpowder**

A spicy smell always permeated the leather seats of the Impala.

Before Dean was the rightful owner of the muscle car, the smell had already been there. Had imprinted its essence on the car and never let go after that moment forward.

Sam’s nostrils had grown on charcoal, sulfur and leather.

His body had been nurtured with training, shooting practice and less food than a growing boy needed. 

His brain had been watered lovingly with whispered assurances from one side, then spoiled with vehement orders always coming from his shadow. 

That’s what John had been most of Sam’s childhood. A shadow. 

The darkness contrasting his brother’s light. 

Dean had been bandages on skinned knees, homemade chicken noodle soup and Dr. Seuss stories late at night. Dean had been a mother, a father, a brother. The tickle monster and the voices in his books. 

John had been absent. He had been an iceberg crashing the somewhat normal course of his early years. Cold and distant; terse and angry. Always wanting more than Sam could give, always _demanding_ more. 

And so Sam absorbed it all. Roots firmly planted, his leaves had twined with Dean’s and preened under the care. Yet thorns poisoned him too, and they sought to prick the man responsible for them. 

Sam’s resentment was born.

The pit only intensified that feeling. It encouraged the black orb of darkness inside of him, cheered him on, fueled his rage and twisted what could’ve been happy recollections.

What could’ve been John Winchester’s redeeming moments crumbled to ash. 

What became a comforting smell for Sam over the years, having inhaled that smell from a familiar jacket, licked it away from the curve of a long neck, it slowly but surely rotted. 

Sam hated the smell of gunpowder.

**Hypothermia**

Lucifer hadn’t been lying when he’d said the pit’s depiction in movies was far-fetched. It wasn’t hellish fire and bubbling lava. 

Sam felt the cold biting into his bones, chilling him to the very core and he knew the temperature couldn’t drop any lower and still, Hell was freezing.

He would’ve liked a hotter climate. 

Perhaps the sizzling of his own flesh and the melting would provide him some comfort, would give him a sense of closeness to the women in his life. 

But no, Sam was stuck with the numbing, with the glacial weather that tormented his bare body. A blank canvas for the cold to use, to splash its bluish hues across and smudge it together with the threat of frostbite. 

Sam never lasted more than an hour.

Physically, it would’ve been impossible for his body to hold onto further than 30 minutes. But the laws of physics didn’t hold a candle to this place. 

Even in the cage this was Lucifer’s reign. Even more, the cage was his very own throne room. No matter how many unwanted companions the King had to put up with. It was _his._

His and his little snowflake’s slice of heaven. 

Lucifer wished he could capture this moment. He longed to collect all the tiny icicles adorning Sam’s eyelashes. Yearned to crack the layer of frost that had formed over his thighs and desperately felt the need to spread the lovely purple of his fingertips. 

Something always stopped him. Because truly, Sam was the most beautiful host Hell had had in a very long time. 

And sometimes playing wasn’t worth ruining a perfect image.

Sometimes Lucifer liked to stop and smell the roses. 

**Immobilize**

Breathe in, hold, release. 

An eye twitches. Sam’s stomach is poked in warning. His muscles contract once, absorb the pain and let it settle. It’s a warm weight at the pit of his belly. It’s welcomed. 

The pain is better than this new form of torment.

If being trapped in the cage wasn’t already claustrophobic, the new barriers that limit his body is downright suffocating. 

Lucifer’s got him cornered at the very edge of the cage, has him standing up straight, his back pressed against the metal bars, as new vertical ones separate Sam from his butcher. 

The metal presses against his back, against his front. There is nowhere for Sam to turn, or move. There’s no space where he can stretch his legs or reach out with a shaky hand. 

Can’t close his eyes because they brush against his eyelids, knows that if they closed, he wouldn’t be able to open them back up. It’s starting to seem more and more tempting as minutes tick by. 

Close his eyes and take a chance; close his eyes and face oblivion. Not being able to see what he’ll do next. 

Could be easier.

His body’s traitorous muscles flex. Eyes twitch. Fingers cramp.

The prince of darkness notices each movement. 

If it’s light and the first time he’s moved that body part, Sam will get a rough poke in warning.

If it’s not, Sam gets the iron nails. The inside of his arms are littered with a line of them. 

Sam knows if his eye twitches again, he’ll get the nails. He knows, he’s braced himself for it. He doesn’t break that often anymore ( _lies, it’s all lies. Sam breaks all the time. He’s a shell of the man he used to be)_ _._

Knowledge is inferior to the actual feeling and the howl that rips open his sewn lips spatters drops of blood onto a smirking face. 

**Jester**

Sharing is caring and occasionally Lucifer finds himself in a rather charitable mood. 

There’s truly not much to do down here, it is after all a way to imprison him. Dear Daddy and the three amigos didn’t think much of his comfort and luxury when devising the cage. 

Sam bears the brunt of said absence of amusement. 

And he’s Lucifer’s. All his own. His to carve into and twist, his to bend and break whichever way he sees fit. His perfect canvas. 

Still, just because Sam’s the ideal companion doesn’t mean Lucifer’s forgotten about his other unwanted guest. It would be an impossible feat to be fully able to ignore the shivering, mumbling ball of delusion that sits at the other edge of this hellhole.

Deep, deep down inside Lucifer swears he can feel his non-existent heart twinge in sympathy when he sees how far Michael has fallen. 

Once a proud, fierce warrior of the creator; turned into a mewling, broken man. Doesn’t even deserve the title of archangel anymore. Not in this state.

Sharing Sam’s pain is the devil’s way of making amends and perhaps providing some much needed enjoyment to his brother as well. Even if Michael doesn’t seem interested or even lucid.

Not at first anyway. After a pattern’s been set, Michael seems to look forward to the rare occasions where Lucifer will let him be a viewer. Never participates, the prude. 

Sam still sees the corners of his mouth tug up into a smirk. 

**Killer**

To say Sam doesn’t understand the unspoken rules of the cage would be an understatement. 

It traps the most evil being in the universe, yet it doesn’t limit his mind tricks. His ability to conjure up objects. Doesn’t weaken his interest to play with Sam. 

He supposes asking for that was too much, especially with a Winchester’s luck. 

The first few years Sam was able to differentiate reality from delusion. But now, his mind’s been, to put it simply, scrambled mercilessly. Thrown in an endless blender that racked memories and confused him to no end. 

Sam can’t say what’s real anymore. And that’s real trouble when the others start showing. 

Amy comes first, as young and terrifying as the day he met her, back when he was a teen who briefly thought of running away with a monster. 

This version is different. This Sam doesn’t let her go. He pierces her chest and watches her drown in her own blood. 

She’s the first but far from the only one. One by one they come, and like dominoes they fall under Sam’s skilled hands. He doesn’t know what drives him to do it, doesn’t know if it’s the devil, somewhere in his mind, forcing his hand. Doesn’t know if it’s his own rage, his own suffering begging for someone else to take the pain for once.

Ava, Gordon, Bela. 

Bela was dragged here by hellhounds. Is she real? Is Sam truly the one torturing her on that rack? He can’t tell.

He’s not sure whether it’s real or not matters much when he’s severing Gordon’s head from his body. 

Even in the pit, the blood on his hands will never be washed. Even in this place of sinners, Sam will always be a killer.

**Love**

“Sammy.”

A gentle breeze.

“Baby boy.”

A warm embrace.

Dean’s arms wrap around his body, his fingers skim over patches of skin he’s intimately familiar with. His lips soon follow, chasing after the touch and setting Sam’s nerves on fire.

But it’s not hellfire. This is warm and welcoming. It’s a blaze that soothes and settles deep inside of him, whispering reassurances and words of love. It’s a fire Sam’s known since he was a kid, growing up with that brotherly love that had no other option but to turn carnal and raw.

Sam’s soul is bare and exposed for Dean and he wouldn’t have it any other way. These hands, these lips are the only ones that belong on him. Only mark Sam wants to wear.

Dean’s touch heals what the devil’s polluted.

Sam almost wants to cry in relief. He’s finally whole. And Dean’s cleansing him, making him completely his again.

Green eyes smile as the two reunited men lock gazes.

It’s hard to believe he’s free and for the first time in over ten or more years, Sam lets himself feel happy.

That’s the dam that breaks the wall.

Dean melts in front of him, his figure crumbling to the ground, his beautiful eyes popping out of their sockets as they _burn._

Sam’s in the cage.

Never left. Lucifer’s laughing.

It’s his greatest form of torture yet and it’s the one that completely shatters Sam Winchester.

**Mary**

It goes all the way back to the womb.

Sam’s DNA, his traits, what makes him who he really is. It all dates back to one Mary Campbell. Hunter, rebellious of Daddy’s path, the little orphan that traded her baby’s soul for the man she deeply loved.

Really Lucifer couldn’t have planned it better. Azazel was always one of his best.

She didn’t technically have to die. It’s only the cherry on top that fate sorted it out.

An absentee mother always in the back of Sam’s mind, what could be better than that?

John had been tricky. Years of resentment and hatred had been bubbling up, the scars the stubborn man had left on Sam’s soul too ingrained to wash out.

Mary though? Lucifer could use her in any way he wanted.

So, he did.

Ever eager to pull the strings inside his victim’s head, the devil toyed and built the woman up from the ground, his very own flesh and blood puppet.

In some scenarios she was the martyr. Crying and apologizing to her son. Begging for forgiveness he’d never be able to grant.

In others she was accusing and spitting ugly words that tore her son up inside. Was it worse than the tears? Lucifer couldn’t tell, Sam’s pain blended together so beautifully nowadays.

All of them had the desired outcome. A broken little boy who’d never experienced the love of a mother. It was the most basic pain Lucifer could cause and it was the most delicious one yet.

**Noise**

They say that when you lose one sense, all the others become more enhanced.

Being a hunter’s a lifestyle where all your senses have to be at their best. Your reflexes have to be sharp. You have to sharpen your ear, be able to hear someone creeping up behind you and adjust your vision to the dark.

Life or death hangs in that balance.

Hell is unknown terrain, though. Here, only the prince himself knows every nook and cranny there is to know.

More importantly, Sam’s not a hunter here. Down in the pit, Sam’s nothing but another one in the long line of victims.

Lucifer’s most precious gift.

The final showdown had been a bust. Stopped by a fickle fallen angel, an old drunk and the love of a big brother.

Even then, it came with a prize. His perfect vessel’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.

Sam Winchester had saved the world in destroying himself.

That’s what he tries to hold onto as sharp nails scratch along his back.

The pain’s trivial, Sam’s starting to get used to it. No, it’s the new addition of his eyes being blindfolded that spice up this new form of torture.

He can hear _everything._

The squelch of his intestines, the dripping of his blood. The soft amused huff Lucifer emits every now and then.

Soft hushing, a hand tucks a bloody strand of hair behind his ear.

Someone blows a gust of air into his ear, making Sam flinch.

It’s futile. He hears the warning before it actually happens; the hand that strikes against his cheek, landing a stinging blow that makes tears well up in his eyes.

Sam feels closer to the edge each day.

He wonders if there’s no turning back from this point on.

Lucifer’s vessel passes out to the sound of his own scream of despair.

**Oral**

Long fingers trace the seam of plush, rosy lips. They’re cracked, probably dehydrated.

A forked tongue swipes over them, slicking them up and giving the same treatment to the inside of his mouth, tongue mapping out corners it’s slowly but surely getting familiarized with.

Dean’s taste is gone.

The same forked tongue catches Sam’s tear before it can slip down his cheek.

“Hush, pet. You deserve a treat now.”

Sam’s been so good. The perfect pet, really. Lucifer thinks his actions should go be rewarded.

Fingers trace wet lips, coax them to part, direct the figure kneeled in front of him to relax his jaw and open wide.

“That’s it,” the devil breathes, satisfied with the warmth that closes around his cock. Snug and comforting.

No teeth, of course. Sammy knows better than to try anything by now. Even if he wanted to, Lucifer’s sure his beautiful swan’s exhausted.

Indulging himself for a while, he rams his cock down until he taps Sam’s throat with the tip. Gives an experimental thrust and smirks at the gag. Just once. One slip-up is all he gets away with.

“You suck your brother off like this?”

Dean Winchester had been a truly lucky man if he’d experienced the bliss that is this mouth.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, though. Even for the prince of darkness.

So as soon as he’s sated, scooping up his seed with his thumb and making his pet swallow it all; Lucifer reaches for the first nugget.

Tears threaten to fall but Sam obediently opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out.

Lucifer places the hot piece of coal on it.

Three more follow in succession.

“Hold them,” is the only warning he receives before there’s an insistent cock pushing inside his mouth again.

It burns exquisitely and Lucifer strokes Sam’s hair.

“Good boy.”

**Pressure**

Voices became distorted after a while.

What started off as Mary’s melodic tone would gradually take on John’s authoritative edge.

Twin needles were masterfully inserted into Sam’s knees with a hum.

Eventually their words all rained down the same message on him.

_Failure_

Sam was a complete failure.

Next were the ankles, Lucifer tapped the bone twice before the needles went in.

The pressure he was already putting on himself increased tenfold.

His whole family would bark at him, yell into his ear to stand up, to not cry. Be a man. Don’t break down.

Sam felt himself physically crumbling under it.

Between Sam’s ribs, that was Lucifer’s favorite spot to play acupuncture.

_Worthless_

“Dad truly created a masterpiece,” his tormentor mused as he finished his masterpiece, looking Sam over in wonder.

“Tender parts of your body that can relieve or cause pain depending on where I put these little things in.” He huffed a chuckle and tapped his chin. “Genius.”

It wasn’t until with a flourish of his hand, all needles started pushing in deeper that Sam felt hot white agony.

He’d failed.

**Quitter**

Sam’s dignity had been shot to hell long ago.

His tears had all been spent, yet he could still conjure more.

But if there was one thing he could at least pride himself for was his refusal to bargain.

The devil seemed confident he could communicate with Dean through the cage, “the real Dean-o, Sam. Out there in the world.”

All he had to do was send him a message, show him just how well his little brother was faring.

Sam knew the images of the indescribable abuse he’d been through would be enough to break any promise Dean might’ve made him before falling.

His brother would undoubtedly find a way. Make another deal. Summon the pale rider himself. Dean would go to the ends of the earth, tear apart anyone that got in his way and march into the sea of lost souls himself if it meant saving Sam.

Had Dean listened to him? Had he asked Lisa to take him back?

Any family he might’ve made wouldn’t matter in that scenario.

A single ‘yes’ was needed.

One word from Sam and this could all end.

Lucifer would send the message, reach out to Dean and they could both escape.

Sam never answered.

The knowledge that Dean was none the wiser, that the world was still safe and sound made the punishment worth it.

**Rape**

Many pieces of Sam’s soul had been taken here. Toyed with and destroyed. Completely shattered, not even the foundations were intact. 

Sam had lost so much here. 

And yet, he’d never imagined losing this.

It should’ve been obvious, he should’ve seen it coming. It was torture 101. 

This was the last piece of him that still belonged to Dean.

Now it was another dark speck in his ever growing collection, nothing more than pure evil corrupting him from the inside. 

Dean’s essence was gone.

Sam tried replaying in his mind that one moment that stood out, the moment him and his brother became one. 

Gentle, rough, possessive. Life-affirming. They’d been through it all. Sam had been loved, been wanted in so many different ways.

The kind of intimacy that seemed untouchable could be ripped away from him in seconds.

Lucifer liked it when he cried. 

He was no fool to assume the rivers spilling down Sam’s lovely face were from the roughness alone. He knew the pain he was causing went beyond physical.

“Big brother fuck you like this?” 

Words weren’t needed, they didn’t crush Sam’s heart under extra layers of agony. Sam’s heart was dust by now. Lucifer still taunted him. 

Because he could. Because he loved it.

One harsh thrust after another, Sam hid away in his own mind, tried to escape.

Darkness swirled around his brain, either keeping him in the present or trapping him in a far more terrible memory. 

The sensation of being utterly used never stopped no matter how hard he tried to detach himself from it.

Lucifer filled him with his seed and threw him away like a battered toy.

Sam’s soul responded to the words. 

Tainted.

**Solitude**

Sometimes his thorny rose wasn’t enough.

It was rare, but sometimes Lucifer couldn’t find amusement, joy or even a distraction in taking his little swan apart.

Those times usually culminated with Sam being left alone for days on end.

It should’ve been a breath of fresh air. Should’ve been a relief, a reprieve from the constant suffering.

Hell had a way of warping your mind.

If he wasn’t being tortured, he wasn’t getting human (or the closest to it) contact. He wasn’t being talked to, or ordered to strip. 

He was completely alone.

Ignored.

Did it matter which was worse? 

The slicing, the skinning, the scalping? Or the loneliness?

“Please.”

One whispered word. 

Turn around, yell at me, lash out and punish me but don’t leave me alone.

Dependent on the worst routine his abuser inflicted upon him, Sam found himself begging. 

Pleading to be acknowledged. 

Much like the blood between his thighs, the vessel would slip away from the fallen angel’s mind. Slip away from reality and lose himself even further into madness.

What was worse? Did it truly matter?

Not when Sam was well and truly alone.

**Teeth**

Row upon row of shining pearls. 

Untouched, impeccable, free of any flaws. 

Lucifer didn’t want to dirty them. It’s true that the miles of tanned skin he’d been working on for years now always looked so much prettier when marked, cut open and glistening. 

Some things he wanted to keep intact. 

Some things he wanted to admire. 

So he would hold Sam there, ask him to keep his mouth open, would run his thumb over the edge of each tooth, apply pressure every now and then until it drew an uncomfortable groan.

He would poke his naturally pink gums until they turned an angry red, until he could see a string of blood bubbling up from underneath them. 

Instrument after instrument he’d use, feeling giddy every time he reached for a different one. 

Determined but careful in his ministrations. Pain was desired but failure wasn’t an option. 

And when he’d grown tired of admiring, when he could finally close his eyes and burn the image to mind, that’s when the first pearly white would be extracted.

The rest would follow in a wonderful mess of tissue, blood and tears. 

No longer a part of Sam, because there was nothing that belonged to him down here. All of him belonged to Lucifer. 

**Under**

The cage is a means to keep him trapped. It’s a damn effective way to keep him locked.

But it is a blessing in disguise as well. Above on Earth, he needs a little help from his vessel to reach full potential, wear him as a second skin to finally fit into his true one. 

While the cage limits him, it’s still in Hell, the place where the prince of darkness draws his strength from. He can feel it all the time, all the restless souls and demons who would give up their life in a second for him.

Their master. Their _father._

Manipulation was another skill of his he got to work on down here. Hey, he had all the time in eternity. 

He rarely used it though. Sam’s genuine reactions, all his wonderful cries and his now scarce yet still very fierce bouts of rebellion left him in complete awe. 

Maybe he’d been on Earth too long, maybe years of imprisonment had worn his patience thin but sometimes the master of demons could not be bothered. 

Couldn’t wait one more minute for Sam to be an obedient little lamb. That’s when he pulled out the big guns.

For Sam, it felt like being underwater. Trapped in some sort of trance. Head held down and body slack. 

What good was his will for if it could be taken away just with a snap of fingers?

What was he still fighting for?

He could’ve sworn he heard something.

A name, a whispered prayer of the most beautiful sound his ears had ever been graced with. 

Someone to fight for?

The red-eyed figure wiped it away. 

Underwater again.

**Vision**

From the top of his head to the tip of his toes, all of Sam had been worshipped.

Cared for, caressed, covered in kisses left by plush and loving lips.

Sweet nothings had been whispered into the warmth of the curve of his neck and bite marks seared into his thighs. 

Fingertips pressed into his lower back, pushing deeper, harder as breathless gasps and pleasured sounds filled the air. 

All of Sam had been Dean’s. And he’d loved every bit. Taken precious care, locked his treasure deep inside his very soul.

If there was one thing in particular, superficial really, that Dean loved about Sam.

Hazel eyes. 

Not plain brown or honey, not just green when the light hit them right. Hazel. This was an important detail.

Lucifer didn’t care for color or texture. He cared for the sounds Sam made as he scooped each eye out, yanked them from their sockets carefully yet efficient.

Sam had long ago stopped deluding himself into thinking he’d die from the pain. 

A brief memory flashed through his mind. A Frankenstein-esque doctor, a disfigured pale face and a similar scoop. 

Someone had stopped him. 

The humid air whispered a name Sam couldn’t make out over his own whimpers. 

Who had stopped him? 

Where was he now?

...Dean?

**Whipping**

It started with a kiss. 

Leather brushed gently against his skin, kissing the soles of his feet, trailing up his back, only to settle comfortably at the nape of his neck.

Continued with a flirtatious nip, teeth digging into his abdomen in a flurry, quick and swift. 

Just a warm-up.

Reality shifted during those first few seconds of reprieve, and just when Sam regained his breath, it came down on him. 

_CRACK_

Blood welled up from the lines across his back, imperfect red lines marring his skin in a disorganized manner. 

Whizzing through the air, the whip seemed to purr its content as it made contact with his skin once more. 

More blood dripped down, reopening fresh wounds that had just been made. 

The soles of his feet were objected to the treatment as well, no matter how much Sam tried to wiggle them under his buttocks. Because of his little rebellion, he received a strike there, too.

No room for modesty, for hiding away. All of his body could be flogged if Lucifer so desired. 

After the initial buildup, any inhibitions were thrown out the window. Lucifer made each strike count. 

His entire back, feet, butt and his front as well, his abdomen and sides, they were all lucky to receive at least one. 

Sam stopped trying to maintain some kind of posture after the eight slash. His body was weak and slouched forward; it made it more painful but he didn’t have the energy to straighten up.

Lucifer could’ve gone farther but why bother?

18 strikes were enough. 

**X marks the spot**

The first knife grazed his lobe and it went so fast, Sam barely felt it.

A sigh was echoed in the cage.

“If you would only stop wriggling.”

Sam hadn’t in fact moved ever since he’d been positioned against the cold bars, and even if he’d dared to, the restraints around his wrists and ankles prevented him from doing so.

Biting his tongue until a drop of blood burst from the appendage, Sam stayed silent. 

“Want a turn? Maybe you have better aim.” 

A wounded noise ripped from an unused throat. He feared the devil, feared being addressed by him. 

Michael’s vessel, shackled to Lucifer’s brother for eternity slid closer to Michael. 

“I’m surrounded by idiots,” a sigh of disappointment followed the second knife thrown through the air. 

It embedded itself into Sam’s right thigh, higher up, just slightly above his groin, prompting the man in question to clench his jaw in pain, biting harder into his tongue.

Copper exploded into his mouth anew.

Sam swallowed it back up. 

Stay silent, don’t scream. It was only just beginning and Sam knew he’d better save his voice for the end. 

“Oh, c’mon!” 

Red eyes appraised Sam’s body coldly, calculating. Drank him in slowly, savoring each patch of skin. 

The third knife was thrown. 

Choking on seemingly nothing but the chilly, constant breeze of this place, Sam looked down torturously slow, craning his neck to look at where the knife was deep inside. 

Slightly left to his breastbone, right between his sternum. 

Red eyes danced, victorious.

Aim was perfect. 

**Yearning**

Sam was not a perfect man.

He’d had an inkling that he wasn’t _pure_ back when he was just a kid.

He’d known he was the freak of his family when he left for college.

He’d accepted he wasn’t normal when he kissed a boy for the first time. 

Green-eyed boy. Names didn’t matter. Names floated in the abyss that had become of his memory. 

He’d feared something evil coursed through his veins when Jessica burned; when he’d seen her burn weeks before it happened.

When he found out it was demon blood, something broke. Something awoke.

Knowing he was Lucifer’s vessel, that was just the icing on a truly nefarious cake God had been baking for him his whole life. 

Far from perfect.

And yet, he tried to find comfort in the fact that he’d done this. This one selfless act of saving the world.

Sacrificing himself. 

For the greater good.

For something else. _Someone_ else. 

Sam gripped the edges tightly and refused to let go. There was a desperation there, a frantic call of his name. 

_Sammy_

‘Not Sammy’. 

But Sam was selfish. His true colors were black and blue all over. 

Sam was selfish because he craved. He wanted out. He wanted more. 

He wanted to remember again. 

_Baby boy_

His lost and forgotten green-eyed boy. 

Smirks and kisses stolen in the dark.

Sam wept.

**Zero**

Down here had become Sam’s home. 

He’d had another home once.

Sleek and black, she’d been a beauty. If Sam concentrated hard enough he could almost make out the faintest scent of leather.

Lucifer had become his master, his father. His unrequited lover. All at once.

The two figures huddled at the edge had become a reminder. 

Pain had become his friend, his normalcy and his routine. 

No torture was greater than other. Not one more painful or hard. 

They all chipped away at his cover, his armor, the strength he’d once had. 

If only the world could see its savior now. Broken down. 

But nothing, nothing was perhaps more daunting, more hopeless than when it ended.

Because when Lucifer put down his brush, when he stepped back to admire his work, would run a finger down, dip and swirl around to taste his creation, that’s when it ended.

And when it was over, Sam awoke once more. Wide eyes and a sharp gasp. 

It was never really over. 

Because then, they’d start all over again.

Rebuilt from his ashes. 

A never-ending cycle.

Forever. 


End file.
